his Grace went on, and now he was grave again, and had even fallen
into a speculative tone. "But it struck me once that I heard of
her--though she is no fit companion for you yet--and Heaven knows if
she ever will be. The path before her is too full of traps for safety."
Roxholm did not speak. Whether fond of women or not, he was not given
to talking of them, and a certain reserve would have prevented his
entering upon any discussion of the future Lady Roxholm, whomsoever she
might in the future prove to be. He stood in an easy attitude, watching
with some vague curiosity the expression of his chief's countenance.
But suddenly he found himself checking a slight start, and this was
occasioned by his Lordship's next words.
"In the future I shall take pains to hear what befalls her," the Duke
said. "In two or three years' time we shall hear somewhat. She will
marry a duke--be a King's mistress, or go to ruin in some less splendid
and more tragic way. No woman is born into the world with such beauty
as they say is hers, and such wild fire in her veins, without setting
the world--or herself--in flames. A new Helen of Troy she may be, and
yet she is but the ninth daughter of a drunken Gloucestershire
baronet."
'Twas here that Roxholm found himself checking his start, but he had
not checked it soon enough to escape the observance of the quickest
sighted man in Europe.
"What!" he said, "you have heard of her?"
"I have seen her, your Grace," Roxholm answered, "on the hunting field
in Gloucestershire."
"Is she so splendid a young creature as they say? Was she in boy's
attire, as we hear her rascal father lets her ride with him?"
"I thought her a boy, and had never seen one like her," said Roxholm,
and he was amazed to feel himself disturbed as if he spoke not of a
child, but of a beauty of ripe years.
"Is she of such height and strength and wondrous development as rumour
tells us?" his Grace continued, still observing him as if with
interest. "At twelve years old, 'tis told, she is tall enough for
eighteen, and can fence and leap hedges and break horses, and that she
plays the tyrant over men four times her age."
"I saw her but once, your Grace," replied Roxholm. "She was tall and
strong and handsome."
"Go and see her again, my lord Marquess," said the Captain-General,
turning to his papers. "But do not wait too long. Such beauties must be
caught early."
When he went back to his quarters, my lord Marquess strolled through
the quaint streets of the town slowly, and looking upon the ground as
he walked. For some reason he felt vaguely depressed, and, searching
within himself for a reason, recognised that the slight cloud resting
upon his spirits recalled to him a feeling of his early childhood--no
other than the sense of restless unhappiness he had felt years ago when
he had first overheard the story of the wretched Lady of Wildairs and
her neglected children.
"Yes," he said, "'tis almost the same feeling, though then I was a
child, and now I am a man. When I saw the girl at the hunt, and rode
home afterwards with Dunstanwolde, listening to her story, there was
gloom in the air. There is that in it to make a man's spirit heavy. I
must not think of her."
But Fate herself was against him. For one thing, my Lord Marlborough
had brought back to him, with a few words, with strange vividness the
picture of the brilliant young figure in its hunting scarlet, its
gallop across the field with head held high, its flying leap over the
hedge, and the gay insolence and music of its laugh.
"A child could not have made a man so remember her," he said,
impatiently. "She was half woman then--half lovely, youthful devil.
There is an ill savour about it all."
When he entered his rooms he found guests waiting him. A
pleasure-loving young ensign, whom he had known at Oxford, and two of
the lad's cronies. They were a trio of young scapegraces, delighted
with any prospect of adventure, and regarding their martial duties
chiefly as opportunities to shine in laced coats and cocked hats, and
swagger with a warlike air and a military ogle when they passed a
pretty woman in the street. It was the pretty woman these young English
soldiers had come to do battle with, and hoped to take captive with
flying colours and flourish of trumpets.
They were in the midst of great laughter when Roxholm entered, and
young Tantillion, the ensign, sprang up to meet him in the midst of a
gay roar. The lad had been one of his worshippers at the University,
and loved him fondly, coming to him with all sorts of confidences, to
pour forth his love difficulties, to grumble at his military duties
when they interfered with his pleasures, to borrow money from him to
pay his gaming debts.
"He has been with my Lord Marlborough," he cried; "I know he has by his
sober countenance! We are ready to cheer thee up, Roxholm, with the
jolliest story. 'Tis of the new beauty, who is but twelve years old and
has set half the world talking."
"Mistress Clorinda Wildairs of Wildairs Hall in Gloucestershire," put
in Bob Langford, one of the cronies, a black-eyed lad of twenty.
"Perhaps your Lordship has heard of her, since she is so much gossiped
of--Mistress Clorinda Wildairs, who has been brought up half boy by her
father and his cronies, and is already the strappingest beauty in
England."
"He is too great a gentleman to have heard of such an ill-mannered
young hoyden," said Tantillion, "but we will tell him. 'Twas my sister
Betty's letter--writ from Warwickshire--set us on," and he pulled forth
a scrawled girlish-looking epistle from his pocket and spread it on the
table. "Shalt hear it, Roxholm? Bet is a minx, and 'tis plain she is
green with jealousy of the other girl--but 'tis the best joke I have
heard for many a day."
And forthwith Roxholm must sit down and hear the letter read and listen
to their comments thereupon, and their shouts of boyish laughter.
Little Lady Betty Tantillion, who was an embryo coquette of thirteen,
had been to visit her relations in Warwickshire, and during her stay
among them had found the chief topic of conversation a certain mad
creature over the borders of Gloucestershire--a Mistress Clorinda
Wildairs, who was the scandal of the county, and plainly the delight of
all the tongue-waggers.
"And oh, Tom, she is a grate thing, almost as tall as a woman though
she is but twelve years of age," wrote her young Ladyship, whose
spelling, by the way, was by no means as correct as her sense of the
proprieties. "Her father, Sir Jeoffry, allows her to ride in boys'
clothes, which is indecent for a young lady even at her time of life.
Brother Tom, how would you like to see your sister Betty astride a
hunter, in breeches? Lady Maddon (she is the slender, graceful buty who
is called the 'Willow Wand' by the gentlemen who are her servants)--she
saith that this girl is a coarse thing and has so little modisty that
she is proud to show her legs, thinking men will admire them, but she
is mistaken, for gentlemen like a modist woman who is slight and
delicate. She (Mistress Clo--as they call her) has big, bold, black
eyes and holds her chin in the air and her mouth looks as red as if
'twere painted every hour. Every genteel woman speaks ill of her and is
ashamed of her bold ways. And she is not even handsome, Tom, for all
their talk, for I have seen her myself and _think nothing of her
looks_. Her breeding is said to be shameful and her langwidge a
disgrace to her secks. The gentlemen are always telling tales of her
ways, and they laugh and make such a noise when they talk about her
over their wine. At our Aunt Flixton's one day, my cousin Gill and me
stood behind a tree to hear what was being said by some men who were
telling stories of her (which was no wrong because we wished to learn a
lesson so that we might not behave like her). Some of their words we
did not understand, but some we did and 'twas of a Chaplain (they
called him a fat-chopped hipercrit) who went to counsel her to behayve
more decent, and she no doubt was impudent and tried to pleas him, for
he forgot his cloth and put his arms sudden about her and kist her. And
the men roared shameful, for the one who told it said she knocked him
down on his knees and held him there with one hand on his shoulder
while she boxed his face from side to side till his nose bled in
streams, and cried she (Oh, Tom!) 'Damn thy fat head,' each time she
struck him 'if that is thy way to convert women, this is my way to
convert men.' And he could scarce crawl away weeping, his blood and
tears streeming down his face, which shows she hath not a reverence
even for the cloth itself. Dere brother Thomas, if you should meet her
in England when you come back from the wars, and she is a woman, I do
pray you will not be like the other gentlemen and be so silly as to
praise her, for such creatures should not be encorragd."
Throughout the reading of the letter uproarious shouts of laughter had
burst forth at almost every sentence, and when he had finished the
epistle, little Tantillion fell forward, his face on his arms on the
table, his mirth almost choking him, while the others leaned back and
roared. 'Twas only Roxholm who was not overcome, the story not seeming
so comical to him as to the others, and yet there were points at which
he himself could not help but laugh.
"'Damn thy fat head,'" shrieked Tom Tantillion, "'If that is thy way to
convert women, this is mine to convert men.' Oh, Lord! I think I see
the parson!"
"With his fat, slapped face and his streaming eyes and bloody nose!"
shouted Langford.
"Serve him damn right!" said Tantillion, sobering and wiping his own
eyes. "To put their heads into such hornets' nests would make a lot of
them behave more decent." And then he picked up the letter again and
made brotherly comments upon it.
"'Tis just like a minx of a girl to think a man cannot see through her
spite," he said. "Bet is dying to be a woman and have the fellows
ogling her. She is a pretty chit and will be the languishing kind, like
the die-away Maddon who is so 'modist.' She is thin enough to be made
'modist' by it. No breeches for her, but farthingales and 'modesty
pieces' high enough to graze her chin. 'Some of their words we did not
understand'"--reading from the letter, and he looked at the company
with a large comprehensive wink. "'Her breeding is disgraceful and her
langwidge a disgrace to her secks'--Well, I'll be hanged if she isn't a
girl after a man's own heart, if she's handsome enough to dress like a
lad, and has the spirit to ride and leap like one--and can slap a
Chaplain's face for him when he plays the impudent goat. Aren't you of
my opinion, Roxholm, for all you don't laugh as loud as the rest of us?
Aren't you of my mind?"
"Yes," said Roxholm, who for a few moments had been gazing at the wall
with a somewhat fierce expression.
"Hello!" exclaimed Tantillion, not knowing the meaning of it. "What are
you thinking of?"
Roxholm recovered himself, but his smile was rather a grim one.
"I think of the Chaplain," he said, "and how I should like to have
dealt with him myself--after young Mistress Wildairs let him go."
_CHAPTER IX_
_Sir John Oxon Lays a Wager at Cribb's Coffee House_.
This is to be no story of wars and battles, of victories and historic
events, such great engines being but touched upon respectfully, as
their times and results formed part of the atmosphere of the life of a
gentleman of rank who moved in the world affected by them, and among
such personages as were most involved in the stirring incidents of
their day. That which is to be told is but the story of a man's life
and the love which was the greatest power in it--the thing which
brought to him the fiercest struggles, the keenest torture, and the
most perfect joy.
During the next two years Gerald Mertoun saw some pretty service and
much change of scene, making the "grand tour," as it were, under
circumstances more exciting and of more moment to the world at large
than is usually the case when a gentleman makes it. He so acquitted
himself on several occasions that England heard of him and prophesied
that if my Lord Marlborough's head were taken off in action there was a
younger hero who might fill his place. At the news of each battle,
whether it ended in victory or not, old Rowe rang the bells at
Camylott, rejoicing that even if the enemy was not routed with great
slaughter, my lord Marquess was still alive to fight another day. At
Blenheim he so bore himself that the Duke talked long and gravely with
him in private, laying before him all the triumphs a career of arms
would bring to him.
"Twenty years hence, Roxholm," he said, watching him with his keen
glance as he ever did, "you might take my place, had England such
questions to settle as she has to-day. In twenty years I shall be
seventy-four. You were hammered from the metal nature cast me in, and
you could take any man's place if 'twas your will. I could have taken
any man's place I had chosen to take, by God, and so can you. If a
man's brain and body are built in a certain way he can be soldier,
bishop, physician, financier, statesman, King; and he will have like
power in whatsoever he chooses to be, or Fate chooses that he shall be.
As statesman, King, or soldier, the world will think him greatest
because such things glitter in the eye and make more sound; but the
strong man will be strong if Fortune makes him a huckster, and none can
hide him. If Louis XV is as great a schemer as the fourteenth Louis has
been, you may lead armies if you choose; but you will not choose, I
think. You do not love it, Roxholm--you do not love it."
"No," answered Roxholm; "I do not love it. I can fight--any man can
fight who has not white blood--and ours has been a fighting house; but
mowing men down by thousands, cutting their throats, burning towns, and
desolating villages filled with maddened men and shrieking women and
children, does not set my blood in a flame as it does the blood of a
man who is born for victorious slaughter. I loathe so the slaughter
that I hate the victory. No; there are other things I can do better for
England, and be happier in doing them."
"I have known that," said the Captain-General, "even when I have seen
you sweep by, followed by your men, at your most splendid moment. I
have known it most when we have sate together and talked--as 'tis not
my way to talk to much older men."
They had so talked together, and upon matters much more important than
the world knew. His Grace of Marlborough's years had been given to
other things than letters. He could win a great victory with far
greater ease than he could pen the dispatch announcing it when 'twas
gained. "Of all things," he once said to his Duchess, "I do not love
writing." He possessed the faculty of using all men and things that
came into his way, and there were times when he found of value the
services of a young nobleman whose education and abilities were of the
highest, and who felt deeply honoured by his unusual confidence, and
was also silent and discreet both through taste and by nature. Older
men were oftenest privately envious and ambitious; and a man who has
desires for place and power is not to be trusted by one who has gained
the highest and is attacked by jealousy on all sides. This man was
rich, of high rank, and desired nothing his Grace wished to retain;
besides this, his nature was large and so ruled by high honour that
'twas not in him to scheme or parley with schemers. So it befel that,
despite his youth, he enjoyed the privilege of being treated as if his
years had been as ripe as his intellect. He knew and learned many
things. Less was hid from him than from any other man in the army, had
the truth been known. When 'twas a burning necessity for the great man
to cross to England to persuade her Majesty to change her ministers,
Roxholm knew the processes by which the end was reached. He had
knowledge of all the feverish fits through which political England
passed, in greater measure than he himself was conscious of. His
reflections upon the affairs of Portugal and their management, his
belief in the importance of the Emperor's reconciliation with the
Protestants of Hungary, and of many a serious matter, were taken into
consideration and pondered over when he knew it not. In hastening
across the Channel to the English Court, in journeying to Berlin to
encounter great personages, in hearing of and beholding intrigue,
triumphs, disappointments, pomps, and vanities, he studied in the best
possible school the art and science of statesmanship, and won for
himself a place in men's minds and memories.
When, after Blenheim, he returned to England with a slight wound, his
appearance at Court was regarded as an event of public interest, and
commented upon with flowery rhetoric in the journals. The ladies vowed
he had actually grown taller than before, that his deep eyes had a
power no woman could resist, and that there was indeed no gentleman in
England to compare with him either for intellect, beauty, or breeding.
Her Majesty showed him a particular favour, and it was rumoured that
she had remarked that, had one of her many dead infants lived and grown
to such a manhood, she would have been a happy woman. Duchess Sarah
melted to him as none had ever seen her melt to man before. She had
heard many stories of him from her lord, and was prepared to be
gracious, but when she beheld him, she was won by another reason, for
he brought back to her the day when she had been haughty, penniless
Sarah Jennings, and the man who seemed to her almost godlike in his
youth and beauty had knelt at her feet.
'Twas most natural that at this time there should be much speculation
as to the beauty who might be chosen as his partner in life by a young
nobleman of such fortune, a young hero held in such esteem by his
country as well as by the world of fashion. Conversation was all the
more rife upon the subject because his Lordship paid no special court
to any and seemed a heart-free man.
Many suitable young ladies were indeed picked out for him, some by
their own friends and families, some--who had not convenient relatives
to act for them--by themselves, and each was delicately or with
matter-of-fact openness presented to his notice. There were brilliant
Court beauties--lovely country virgins of rank and fortune--charming
female wits, and fair and bold marauders who would carry on a siege
with skill and daring; but the party attacked seemed not so much
obdurate as unconscious, and neither succumbed nor ran away. When the
lovely Lady Helen Loftus fell into a decline and perished a victim to
it at the very opening of her eighteenth year, there was a whisper
among certain gossiping elderly matrons, which hinted that only after
her acquaintance with the splendid young Marquess had she begun to look
frail and large-eyed, and gradually fallen into decay.
"Never shall I forget," said old Lady Storms, "seeing the pretty thing
look after him when he bowed and left her after they had danced a
minuet together. Her look set me to watching her, and she gazed on him
through every dance with her large heaven-blue eyes, and when at last
she saw him turn and come towards her again her breast went up and down
and her breath fluttered, and she turned from white to red and from red
to white with joy. 'Tis not his fault, poor young man, that women will
set their hearts on him; 'tis but nature. I should do it myself if I
were not seventy-five and a hooked-nosed pock-marked creature. Upon my
life, it is not quite a fair thing that a man with all things which all
women must want, should be sent forth among us. Usually when a man hath
good looks he hath bad manners or poor wit or mean birth, or a black
soul like the new man beauty, Sir John Oxon, whom a woman must hate
before she hath loved him three months. But this one--good Lord! And
with the best will in life, he cannot take all of us."
The new man beauty, Sir John Oxon, was indeed much talked of at this
time. Having lived a mad rake's life at the University, and there
gained a reputation which had made him the fashionable leader of the
wickedest youths of their time, he had fallen heir to his fortune and
title just as he left Cambridge and was prepared to launch himself into
town life. He had appeared in the world preceded by stories of
successful intrigues, daring indeed when connected with the name of a
mere youth; but as he was beautiful to behold, and had gayety and grace
and a daring wit, such rumours but fixed public attention upon him and
made him the topic of the hour. He was not of the build or stateliness
of Lord Roxholm, and much younger, but was as much older than his years
in sin as the other was in unusual acquirement. He was a slender and
exquisitely built youth, with perfect features, melting blue eyes, and
rich fair hair which, being so beautiful, he disdained to conceal with
any periwig, however elaborate and fashionable. When Roxholm returned
to England, this male beauty's star was in the ascendant. All the town
talked of him, his dress, his high play, the various intrigues he was
engaged in and was not reluctant that the world of fashion should hear
of. The party of young gentlemen who had been led by him at the
University took him for their model in town, so that there were a set
of beaux whose brocaded coats, lace steenkirks, sword-knots, and
carriage were as like Sir John's as their periwigs were like his fair
locks, they having been built as similar as possible by their
peruquiers. His coach and four were the finest upon the road, his chair
and chariot, in the town; he had fought a duel about a woman, and there
were those who more than suspected that the wildest band of Mohocks
who played pranks at night was formed of half a dozen pretty fellows
who were known as the "Jack Oxonites."
He was not a young man whose acquirements were to be praised or
emulated, but there were pretty women who flattered him and men of
fashion who found pleasure in his society, for a time at least, and
many a strange scandal connected itself with his name.
He sang, he told wicked stories, he gambled, and at certain
coffee-houses shone with resplendent light as a successful beau and
conqueror.
'Twas at a club that Roxholm first beheld him. He had heard him spoken
of but had not seen him, and going into the coffee-room one evening
with a friend, a Captain Warbeck, found there a noisy party of beaux,
all richly dressed, all full of wine, and all seeming to be the guests
of a handsome fellow more elegantly attired and wearing a more dashing
air than any of them. He was in blue and silver and had fair golden
love-locks which fell in rich profusion on his shoulders.
He stood up among the company leaning against the table, taking snuff
from a jewelled gold snuff-box with an insolent, laughing grace.
"A quaint jade she must be, damme," he said. "I have heard of her these
three years, and she is not yet fifteen. Never were told me such
stories of a young thing's beauty since I was man-born. Eyes like
stars, flaming and black as jet, a carriage like a Juno, a shape--good
Lord! like all the goddesses a man has heard of--and hair which is like
a mantle and sweeps upon the ground. In less than a year's time I will
go to Gloucestershire and bring back a lock of it--for a trophy." And
he looked about him mockingly, as if in triumph.
"She will clout thee blind, Jack, as she clouted the Chaplain," cried
one of the company. "No man that lives can tame her. She is the
fiercest shrew in England, as she is the greatest beauty."
"She will thrash thee, Jack, as she thrashed her own father with his
hunting crop when she was but five years old," another cried.
The beau in blue and silver flicked the grains of snuff lightly from
the lace of his steenkirk with a white jewelled hand and smiled, slowly
nodding his fair curled head.